


O Sanctissima

by roxymissrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 02:20:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is something Dean can have and something he wants, but he's not sure he should take it. Sam's sure enough for the both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	O Sanctissima

**Title:** O Sanctissima   
**Author:** roxymissrose  
 **Pairings/Characters:** Sam/Dean  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Word Count:** 2972  
 **Summary:** This is something Dean can have and something he wants, but he's not sure he should take it. Sam's sure enough for the both of them.  
 **Notes/Warnings:** There's sex, there's some angst, there's a wee bit of emotional blackmail  
Thank you to firesign10, for looking this over and catching mistakes and suggesting changes. I've screwed with it since then so any mistakes now are on me. 

The sun's beginning to hit the peak of the motel's roofline by the time Dean gets back from hunting down breakfast. He grabs the stuff off the seat and nudges the car door shut with his hip. Mentally makes a note to find some place he can wash her. Salt and grime's turned her lower half a dusty gray and he can't have that, he's not letting his baby look less than her best. He's juggling a newspaper and a bag of donuts and a tray of coffees, fuel for his other responsibility. He's planning on waking his kid up nice—Sam's been through enough shit, he deserves a little break. And this, it's as good as it gets for them. The room is clean and the sheets are decent. The coffee's hot and good, he's got a bag full of crispy, still warm donuts. Dean smiles a bit. It's the kind of small shit that used to make Sam happy and four years away can't have changed the kid that much.

o0o

"Hey, rise and shine, Sammy. I come bearing gifts…" Dean drops the paper and the bag on the little table shoved up against the big glass plate window. He pulls the green plaid curtains wide before setting one of the cups on the nightstand nearest Sam. Give it a minute and sunlight plus the smell of coffee that was actually coffee and not over-burned tar or lightly scented water was bound to drag Sam out of the covers. 

Sam slowly unbends from the C he curls into when he's totally wiped, pointy nose snuffling over the edge of the blanket in a way that never fails to make Dean laugh—though nowadays he tends to cover it with a cough because he's not about to let a twenty-something man think he's cute. "S'at coffee? There food?"

"Mm-hm. So articulate.

"Fuck you, Mr. Word-a-Day. Gimme."

"Coffee's at nine o'clock. And fuck you too." It takes Sam a few seconds to work out where to grab but when he makes contact, he lifts the cup to his face like it's the Holy Grail and groans, creaky but heart-felt. The deep-seated sense of relief and completion Dean feels drags a satisfied sigh out of him, like everything had been shuffled wrong but now it's settled. 

It's kinda goofy but he can't stop looking at Sam. He can't get over how good it feels to have Sam near, under Dean's eyes. This here is just how it should always be, and where they'll be until the Yellow-eyed bastard's iced good and proper and Sam takes off to finish getting normal. Dean shrugs and turns back to his own coffee. That's something to worry about later, if ever.

Dean digs around in the bag and pulls out a cinnamon dusted perfect O of a donut, frowning at it like it's a magic eight ball of answers. It's just…worrying about what Sam'll do in the future is stupid. It's a fact, Sammy's gonna take off. Sam might not believe it’s possible right _now,_ but the day will come when he'll find love again, he'll find himself another pretty girl and want to settle down into that normal life. And Dean? Will keep on rolling until some thing or someone turns his lights off permanently. It is what it is and he can't waste time worrying about that. 

Sam's making noises and holding his hand out, caffeine finally percolating through his system and bringing him back from zombie-land. He blinks owlishly a few times before smiling. "Jam-filled?"

"Ugh. Yes, you freak. Here. Oh, and this too." Dean proudly pulls a bottle of eggnog out of a skinny brown bag and crows, "Merry Christmas, Ralphy."

Sam squints. "Christmas was last week. We didn't do anything."

"That's 'cause we were waiting for Poor Folks Christmas, when everything goes half-price." Dean splashes a slug or two of eggnog into a couple of toss-away glasses from the bathroom. 

"What?" Sam asks, and finally pulls himself out of bed to sit down at the little table and reach out for one of the plastic tumblers. He sniffs it suspiciously; free hand scratching under a threadbare, grayish-blue t-shirt, an old Jimi Hendrix tee that Dean remembers his dad wearing…"Since when are we doing that?"

Dean cuts his eyes away from the t-shirt and the bit of flat stomach exposed and runs his eyes over the rest of Sam. Just a quick glance, checking in that stupid habit he's had since…forever. Time to get new shorts as well as t-shirts. Sam looks like he found his in a garbage pail in a bus station…"Since you left and Dad decided that Christmas stuff was a waste of time, that's since when." Dean's pretty sure there's not a trace of bitterness in his voice because he doesn't mean for it to be a judgment, just info, just stuff Sam doesn't know about because he was gone. Dean shrugs. "So, I got in the habit of hitting the stores after Christmas–all the good stuff goes half off or more. Half price for the nog—it's bourbon laced and really good. Got it last year and liked it. Pizza, nog, and The Long Kiss Good-bye, nothing says Christmas more'n that."

Sam looks a little guilty anyway and worse, like he pities Dean. Dean searches out what he could've said for Sam to make that face. He doesn't get it. He just described a damn good Christmas that could only have been better if Sam had been in it. Some things about Sam are just forever going to be a fucking mystery to him.

Anyway, it's good to watch Sam wolf down jelly-filleds and chase 'em with eggnog and before Dean knows it, they're snorting and laughing and butchering Christmas carols together. 

"Fuck…I think I'm buzzed," Sam mutters and looks equal parts surprised and pissed. "What the hell."

"Aww, princess. What's the matter, can't find your mouth no more? Lemme help." Dean holds out a donut for Sam, one of those whole-wheat glazed things that people pretend are healthy or some shit. Pokes him in the mouth, over and over until Sam retaliates by opening up and snatching a bite, nearly grabbing one of Dean's fingers with it. 

"Mmm," Sam mumbles, leaking crumbs." I like that. Feed me, Seymour." 

"Ass. Here." Dean feeds Sam glazed wheat donut until his lips are grazing Dean's finger tips, and then opens wide so Dean can drop the last crumbly bite in. And then, sucks Dean's fingertips inside. 

Dean's shocked stupid, to say the least. Like, deer in spotlights, framed in a rifle scope kind of shocked. Dumbfounded. And ridiculously turned on, to the point his stomach is doing uncomfortable gymnastics. "Sam. Sam…Sam, stop."

Sam shakes his head, eyes tightly closed and lips locked around Dean's finger. Again, memories of stubborn little Sammy Winchester smack Dean in the brain. Not the best time for it he thinks before all thoughts fold in and knot around themselves when Sam tugs on his finger again. It makes his finger slide in deeper. He can feel the light imprint of Sam's teeth, the roof of his mouth. How soft his tongue is. How warm his mouth is. Spit slips between Dean's fingers. They slip on Sam's tongue. Sam sucks his fingers and it sends off a crackling, crazy avalanche of arousal, making Dean's dick swell and at the first twitch he's trying to move away, trying to understand just what could have possessed his brother— _oh my god._

Dean almost knocks over the table staggering back, jerks his fingers out of Sam's mouth. It makes an obscene popping sound. He feels fiery streaks graze the length of them, a pinch when Sam's teeth catch on his knuckles. A quick glance shows him a sight that should be funny—Sam's eyes are wide and startled, his mouth a wet and perfect O. Any other time, he'd laugh at Sam, but right now, Dean 's trying to remember the one fuckin' Latin prayer his dad managed to beat into him, a quick and dirty exorcism….

"Not fucking possessed, Dean," Sam shouts over Dean's stumbling recital, "You jerk!" He surges up off the chair and herds Dean backwards until he sprawls flat on his back on the bed. He slams his hand down over Dean's shoulder to pin him there. Dean just about takes a chunk out the inside of his cheek, biting down so as not to yell. He's not about to give Sam the satisfaction of knowing that shit _hurt._

Sam acts like he didn't notice Dean flinching, just crawls up until he's covering him, knees splayed out on either side of Dean's hips, and Dean's already sweating like the heat of Sam's body is burning him up. Sam lowers his head, Dean gulps when his brother hisses into his ear, "Not possessed, not by any supernatural shit, anyway."

It's like he's fallen into a nightmare wearing a funhouse mirror version of his favorite fantasies. "You—you have to be—"

"Fuck—you want it too, I know you do. You show me how much, goddamn it," Sam demands, rubbing denim against denim. Dean can feel the heat, the weight of Sam's dick rubbing insistently against his hip. "You know how often I thought about this? How many times I thought it was going to happen and—and it never fuckin' happened so I _ran,_ damn it. Because of you." Sam screws his face up, crushes his eyes closed and twists his hips down on Dean so hard it hurt. "I asked Santa to make you love me," he laughs, a weak and bitter bleat of sound that shakes Dean to his soul and kills his own growing erection. "Can you imagine?" Sam breathes, voice thick with remembered embarrassment. "Yeah, didn't ever do that again…too old for Santa anyway, that shit was your fault."

Dean had only wanted to stretch Sam's childhood out a little longer, hell; he didn't have anything else to give Sammy. What the hell, what fuckin' nine year old asks Santa for his brother, for god's sake….

And it's possible, at the time Sam was baring his heart to Santa, Dean might have been crouching horrified behind that tacky-ass throne Santa rode and maybe overhearing what was some truly mortifying shit. That was the year Dean had to break it to Sam—Santa wasn't real and oh, by the way, Dad wasn't so much a private eye-soldier-of-fortune-part time fireman as he was…a hunter of things that go "dinnertime!" in the night, and the thing under Sam's bed was imaginary but the thing scratching to get in through his window wasn't. 

"—so Dean, let me, just this once, please. You have to." Sam's mouth rubs all over Dean's neck and instinct makes him twist his head, give access to the hot, crazy hot kisses Sam's sucking into his pulse. Dean's hips roll up to meet Sam's. "Let me," Sam asked again and Dean shivers. 

"No—"

Sam jerks like Dean's stabbed him and stops moving but Dean can feel Sam's chest hitch and catch like he's sobbing. It kills him. Makes Dean feel like a bastard, makes him feel selfish, and he knows that's crazy. He's got this impulse to scream at Sam, slap him until his brain's working on all cylinders again. _No, Sam, fuck no—never. Because it won't be this once, it'll be again and again until it bores you and you're gone and then what do I have, eggnog, pizza and a skin mag alone in a motel room…._ "I don’t think it's a good idea, Sam."

"Of course it's not," Sam manages a strangled bark meant to be a laugh. "Nothing about our lives is a good idea, Dean." 

It goes quiet, and then, Dean clears his throat. "You got a point there," he says and Sam laughs again but this time, layers of pain have peeled off of it and he smacks his lips against Dean's neck. Dean knows he's lost. Again.

"Come on Dean, let me blow you. Please, please, please…"

"Sammy…" Dean groans a little; just thinking of it, imagining Sam's lips going red and wet around his dick, makes him hard as iron but hell no. No way is he being left behind holding onto that memory like a pathetic school-girl. Still…. "Nah, I mean, not no to blow jobs, calm down—I mean, let me do the work." 

Sam laughs and rolls off of him and gets his jeans down with a relieved sigh. "This time, right? But next time, it's _my_ turn." 

"Sure Sam, sure—everybody pulls his weight here," he says and they both snicker, remembering endless drills….

"Dean. Have you ever…" 

"A few times." Sam frowns at that, doesn't like it one bit and Dean rolls his eyes at the fool. "What, was I supposed to be saving myself for you? Get real."

Sam's glowering now, and snaps, "Shut up."

"So, shut me up," Dean grins and Sam's eyes go dark, his grin turns sly and feral. He knocks Dean back again, ignoring his protests and grabs the back of Dean's head. He rubs his dick over Dean's lips. Velvety heat, a little pull as the crown hooks against his lip and drags it down and then, a little bit of slick spreads over Dean's bottom lip. He gasps, opens his mouth on auto-pilot as Sam feeds him his dick, nice and slow. "Yeah…yeah, there you go. Nice. Take it. Good boy…."

Fuck, no way in hell that should be as hot as it was…Dean's wondering just what the hell is wrong with him that sound of his little brother praising him like that makes him want to come….

The angle's all wrong and he's drooling like a fucking Saint Bernard and choking every few seconds, slurping down spit and precome—it's obscenely loud and he's getting him and Sam sloppy wet. Probably the worst head in the history of…yeah. Like _that's_ the wrong fuckin' thing about this moment. He tries to get Sam deeper, grunts with the effort—the need to be better—and Sam moans, "Oh that, please Dean, oh fuck."

Dean tries to multitask, jerk himself off while he's getting Sam off but he can't. It's just…Sam is, fuck, making these little noises, like it's so, so, good. He's thrusting short, careful, hesitant pushes in over Dean's tongue…the very careful way he's fucking into Dean's mouth is turning Dean on to an insane degree. Suddenly Sam's huge hands lace together under Dean's head, holding him where he wants him. Sam's head whips back so that his silly, long neck is strained into this arch, this beautiful curve, muscle and tendon standing out like they've been carved into his skin...he was more than moaning, not quite screaming.

Dean watches as Sam's stomach muscles flex and flutter. Feels the strain of Sam not shoving his dick all the way down Dean's throat. Feels him stiffen more, twitch—Sam's dick twitches one more time and then he lets out a long, long, collection of vowels, pulls Dean's head closer to him and comes on a shout and an even longer moan. 

Dean's dick jumps, slaps down in the mess of precome he's been leaking pretty steadily like a faucet gone bust. He relaxes his throat much as he can and hopes to god Sam doesn't smother him, lets Sam fuck his mouth until he's wrung out, fucked out, and eases Dean's head back to the pillow with a little sigh. 

_God._ Dean grabs his own dick and works frantically towards orgasm himself. It's only fair. Plus he swallowed so he deserves getting Sam all covered in jizz.

o0o

He'd passed out somewhere along the way, then woke up expecting to be crusty and glued to stuff but Sam must have taken pity on him some time during the afternoon and cleaned him up. Dean nods. Hangs out in the bed, ankles crossed and eyes on the TV, switching through channels rapid-fire, no fucking idea of what he was seeing at all and his foot's going tap-tap-tap non-stop and he thinks and imagines and figures until….

o0o

"Hey, I went and got lunch so…" Sam's happy, open expression crunches down into an angry, suspicious glower. "You thought I took off."

"Did not, you big weirdo. Better be meat in that bag." Dean yanks the top sheet off the bed and wraps it around himself before sitting at the table and rummaging through the bag.

"Look, are you going to freak out about this," Sam, says, "because we—"

"No, I'm not because—"

_"Good—"_

"Sam, stop! Because this is never happening again."

"Dean." Sam slams the Styrofoam boxes down on the table, they jump and pop their lids and grains of rice shower everywhere. 

"I mean it Sam, this can't—" Dean sweeps up rice and pours it into his palm, looks around, where to dump them…?

Sam throws a napkin at him so he wipes his hand clean and balls up the napkin, squeezing it into as tiny a lump as he can. "We can't."

"Dean, damn it, Dean, why not? Don't tell me you didn't _love_ it. Don't tell me you never thought about it."

"Yes, fucking yes, okay but that's…I can't—I _won't_ do this to myself." Dean's shocked he said it, and Sam staring at him, his eyes wide and wet and looking just as shocked as Dean feels. 

"Dean, _no."_

"Sam…" Dean shakes his head. He's got his hands over his face. Already tired to death. "Sammy." 

Laying half in, half out of a paper bag in front of him, there's one last wheat donut. He breaks it in half and then in half again, breaking it into smaller and smaller pieces.

12-30-2012


End file.
